


Tempt Not Creatures of the Deep

by Estivate



Category: Thor (Movies)
Genre: Body Horror, Breeding, Come Inflation, Come Milking, Deepthroating, Forced Orgasm, Forced Pregnancy, Fuck Or Die, Intersex Loki, Kinktober, Lactation Kink, Loki loves his bro so much that he's willing to take on a bajillion tentacle dicks for him, M/M, Mind Manipulation, Multi, Pre-Thor (2011), Pregnancy Kink, Psychological Torture, Size Kink, Somnophilia, Tentacle Sex, drugged, filthy filth, like woah
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-01
Updated: 2018-10-04
Packaged: 2019-07-23 04:42:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16151825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Estivate/pseuds/Estivate
Summary: A sonic scream booms across the waters, sound enough to ripple the waves into a tide. The centre from where that ripple originates, a tentacled leviathan erupted from Hel itself.Loki clutches his head in his hands, becoming paralyzed with pain. If he is screaming himself, he cannot hear it. Thor could have hammered a nail with Mjolnir into Loki’s skull and it would not have been able to split his mind clean as such.Thor. Where’s Thor.He had been flying high enough that when Loki compels his eyes open, Thor is still falling, dropping into the water like a stone, towards the central mass of fury waiting for him.





	1. Symbiosis

 

Less than one month since Thor’s gained possession of Mjolnir and already he is trying to make a name for himself. A name that will propel him into legend.

 

The ladies love it – results in all sorts of euphemisms.

 

“We’ve been waiting for you oh Thunderer, that you should visit our tavern last is something you must make up for.”

 

Thor definitely likes them buxom. Any more flounce and those tits were going to pop out of her corset.

 

The town tart no doubt. Her stench was detectable a mile away. It wasn’t that Loki minded so much, once the overpowering scent of alcohol started flowing, but why was it that Thor could never choose anyone…less repetitive.

 

He’s young and brash and has something to prove, which is no excuse, because Loki was even younger and still bailed Thor out on tests and homework. Maybe he shouldn’t have. Maybe if Thor failed astrophysics, Odin would have thought twice on granting him the legendary treasure.

 

Thor’s coming of age ceremony had been a grand affair, as well as the entire ordeal leading up to it. Thor had been of age for quite some time now. Most adolescents went through a period of awkwardness: gangly limbs or voices breaking. Not Thor. Fed on a diet of Idunn’s apples, butter milk, and roasted boar, Thor had jumped straight from golden princeling, to resplendent godling, almost overnight. Muscles filled in places where Loki wasn’t sure were anatomically possible, skin bronzed from the sun seeking to make him into one of its own, and voice as stately as a king’s if only he had the speech to match.

 

Yes, Thor was doing quite well these days, and anyone with eyes in their head could see so. Unfortunately for Loki, he counted as one amongst them with eyes in his head. Loki would rather be elsewhere, truly, but he’s not yet reached a state of aloofness where he knows how to resist his brother’s gravitational pull.

 

Neither does the brunette, if the way her mouth latches onto his suggests.

 

Thor is on an informal campaign of quests and adventure, its complements being sex and revelry. If proportions are anything to go by, Thor is quite endowed down there. All the Nine can rest assured in Thor Odinson’s virility, because Loki never does, rest that is, given how the bed in the next room over creaks as whichever companion for the night Thor chooses for himself professes her ardor in language and volume that’s seared into Loki’s synapses.

 

Oh yes, he’s been dragged along because Thor wants one who’s witness, wordsmith, and potential bard. Loki Odinson: Unwitting Innocent to the God of Thunder’s Debauches.

 

Loki can only look into his cup for something not to be envious about, while passing along the amount of gold required for the night’s best lodgings.

 

But tonight there was to be a hitch in the plan, because just as the candles burn low and the wasted regulars return home to their wives, a newcomer graces them, the air around her incongruous with the atmosphere of the room. She does not look to be here for a drink. Loki keeps his eyes on her as her eyes land on Thor.

 

Her cloak is dark and modest, her shoes tattered. She has travelled a long way into the long night. When mead is proffered, she looks into the amber liquid darkly as one who has given up on the kind of warmth it temporarily provides. Thor does not understand why she appears so glum, is unused to those in his company not instantly giving into his contagious cheer.

 

“Please, your majesty, they have spoken such grand things about you, that you may be the solution to our troubles.”

 

Others have flattered and fawned in the presence of royalty so often that it’s more recognizable when it is sincere. The girl speaks in grave tones.

 

“I-I’m no one my lord, forgive me. And I do not mean to sully your evening, but –” she pauses to take a shuddering breath. Those eyes are on the verge of tearing.

 

“Our village has been beset by a terrible being, one that we have no hope of vanquishing for it dwells beneath the sea and chases away our ways of making a living.”

 

Thor can sniff a challenge in the air faster than a shark detects blood in the water. His body language at once turns to regard her with his full attention.

 

“Already it has stolen and killed those who tried to fight it. Our ports and harbors are blocked while our nets and lines catch on nothing but the corpses that drift back onto the shore.”

 

Then those tears do fall.

 

“When I was a girl, I would have been happy to have lived a full life by the sea, our beautiful village forever sustained by the ocean’s rich bounty, from waters as lovely as the blue sky. I knew nothing of monsters from the depths and now I can never forget.”

 

Thor, never able to turn down those in need, “Tell me where I may find this creature, so that I can restore your home to you.”

 

She clenches her eyes shut and furiously wipes against them, sobbing heavily. Was it relief or trauma? Loki can’t tell.

 

“Be warned. At its most furious, the monstrosity cleared an entire pier along the coast line, and its appendage was as large as the tallest trees in the forest.”

 

Thor takes her hand in his “No matter how large this foul beast, if it resides in water, then my gift of thunder and lightning will make short work of it.”

 

Perhaps it is that she is still young, and details in recollections can be exaggerated on the magnifying glass of trauma.

 

Perhaps it is that Thor walks into these things head first without even a look over his shoulder for regards of his own safety.

 

Perhaps it is that Loki knows he can only follow, needing to recover him from folly.

 

Perhaps it is because in bestiaries, illustrations depicting creatures of the deep have always occupied his nightmares.

 

But Loki remembers the momentary dread and doubt like the last thought of a drowning man before plunged into dark waters.

 

\---

 

“You don’t believe her?”

 

“Her terror was true.”

 

“You don’t believe in me then.”

 

“Your overconfidence has done you in before.”

 

They’re standing on a shore as lifeless as she described. That was indeed eerie, for coastal environments often had the most spectacular displays of life on the edge. Above them, not even a gull tarried on its wing.

 

It was once a bustling trade harbor, that was to be sure. Architectural skeletal shambles of houses spoke of something grand. Torn sails of shore-wrecked ships once braced the wind to travel beyond the horizon. A west wind zephyr greeted its tentative visitors, swelling with expectation before dying down in disappointment at the strangers. The town and its people had already evacuated: a carved wooden mermaid spoke to the panic and immediacy parents took up their children with as they ran away, never pausing to recover a clearly beloved toy.

 

Loki looks towards the sea. Calm surfaces always belied turbulent waters. Thor spins his hammer and launches himself into flight.

 

Loki is still stuck on the girls’ reaction from last night. She had travelled on foot to see Thor, to plead her woes so that he may answer, yet when Thor declared that he would bring the monster down she had not smiled the slightest and her tears had not slowed.

 

In the distance, Thor is suspended in the sky, divinity calling to him. The clouds gather and charge, swirl and darken. Even from where Loki is, he can see Thor’s eyes start to whiten with power.

 

The air pressure shifts, static heavy. The god Thor was, he should have been the answer to her prayers. Yet her eyes remained desolate.

 

Thunder gathers all around as the wind whips Loki’s hair about his face. Thor strikes with all his might, and the world for an instant becomes its photo negative.

 

It’s not that Loki didn’t believe her or that Loki didn’t believe in Thor, it’s that not even she dared to believe in Thor. And in a moment he finds out why.

 

A sonic scream booms across the waters, sound enough to ripple the waves into a tide. The centre from where that ripple originates, a tentacled leviathan erupted from Hel itself.

 

Loki clutches his head in his hands, becoming paralyzed with pain. If he is screaming himself, he cannot hear it. Thor could have hammered a nail with Mjolnir into Loki’s skull and it would not have been able to split his mind clean as such.

 

Thor. Where’s Thor.

 

He had been flying high enough that when Loki compels his eyes open, Thor is still falling, dropping into the water like a stone, towards the central mass of fury waiting for him.

 

Loki cusses in every language he knows, some he shouldn’t, and scrambles as fast as his legs can carry him into deeper waters. He stops to heave in all the oxygen his lungs can handle at once, casts a spell to make it last, and dives in head first towards what he would give anything in this instance, to find himself huddling under the covers again.

 

Anything but Thor’s life.

 

Loki is a good swimmer, but the oxygen won’t last forever and to Thor, the oxygen will last even less. Thor doesn’t stand a chance if Loki can’t find him, and he’s painfully aware, more so than the blood in his ears, that time is preciously thin. Something snaps around his ankle, and Loki expects it ahead of time enough to freeze the extremity instantly. He blesses every extant god on Yggdrasil currently for his seidr that was so naturally inclined to ice. Salt water or no, it would still freeze in an instant at Loki’s command. That being said, he cannot attempt to do so the entire creature without an inkling of where Thor is, else condemning his brother to the same death.

 

He dives to where he can still make out light, and relies on his instincts and touch for when the monster comes at him. More limbs are frozen off, coloring the water in blackened ichor.

 

When it speaks to him, he is too stunned to be afraid.

 

_Stop. Please stop._

 

The voice is as deep as a volcano connected to the world’s core, and old as time itself.

 

It’s not speaking, it’s telepathy, Loki realizes. Just as well, since he cannot speak back without water streaming into his mouth. He must do so soon though, Thor is drowning as they dally.

 

_Return the man you’ve taken from me._

 

Indignant, it replies, _Taken? He fell into my clutches after that attack. What is he to you?_

 

An image enters his head from a tendril so fine that he does not perceive movement from it until it’s already projecting Thor as he is, right at this moment. Treacherously, the first thought in reaction to the image of Thor, bound, armour torn, muscles struggling as he bucks, is not that of his safety, but something darker and licentious.

 

He shakes his head. _Give him back, unharmed, for he is my brother._

 

_Brotherrr…_

 

It lingers on that word in a tectonic plate wrenching purr. Loki’s not sure what kind of intonation exists that can be translated from the sound.

 

_But you two are not alike at all. Not at all._

 

Has the creature already sensed his immoral feelings? Loki’s face is hot even in the cold temperatures of the water. It happens in a split second: tentacles creep up from behind to grip his waist and take a hold of his wrists, twisting it behind his back; another pair secure his legs, more of them (gods, just how many were there) slide up the leg of his pants to thicken at the thigh and rip his clothing through to the naked sex now exposed.

 

Loki finally finds his head when a sticky tentacle seeks out the spot that not even Thor or his parents knew about. His anomaly marked him as an abomination, but the creature somehow seems to swell, in…excitement?

 

_Make another move and I will freeze this ocean solid, damn the consequences. Don’t think I won’t._

 

It verbally placates him. _And what good would that be? All of us dead. No, no good at all. Nothing about this place has been good for me._

 

There’s a primal despair in that voice. _What did you come here for and why do you linger? To terrorize?_

 

_Femalesss, I need females. I am the last of my kind and now I have been mortally wounded._

 

It’s not just from the water’s cold that penetrates the skin from where his body is most sensitive. Loki’s entire frame shudders at the implication of that statement. That’s what the creature was here for?

 

_And what of the ones you already took?_

 

_They died of fright before they even hit the water, but you, you are different, you’re not afraid for yourself enough, but rather, that man, that useless male._

 

It had always been Thor’s charge to comfort Loki when the monsters had only been in his imagination or fictional. Now that they are real and colossal...

 

_If you’re doomed to die already, then why not let us both go and I will let you perish in warmer waters._

 

_Because, there are things worse than death and I will make this so called brother of yours feel all of them before I split him open from the inside._

 

Loki is not so foolish to think that it is not within the creature’s capability.

 

_However, let me but taste you and I shall let you have him safely._

 

_Define taste._

 

_I need children, my children –_

 

Loki snaps, _That’s outrageous. There’s no time to gestate!_ And then he panics because it’s too late – Thor is probably already dead. It’s the horror of his brother’s golden body, eyes pale and unseeing, more than the idea of being bred, that wells up in his throat.

 

_Shh, shhh... He is safe for now and I can keep him so. As for the matter of gestation, we are already outside of time – it will be but a moment in the above-world._

 

With a startle, Loki realizes his spell has already lasted much longer than it ought to.

 

 _Please._ It begs in an avalanching groan. _Will you condemn my race, or just me?_

 

Loki does not know if he will come out of this alive. But if Thor can…

 

He stops straining against the tentacles.

 

_Just you._

 

The monster’s exaltation resounds through the ocean floor. A multitude of eyes open all at once to regard him. They’re sickly yellow, spinning in their sockets before locking on to his constrained figure. There are so many that they fill his field of vision, glowing in the dark water, black only where the pupil lies.

 

Just then Loki remembers wryly. He’s still a virgin.

 

Against the hypnotic power of those stares, Loki starts to feel dazed. The situation still feels dangerous enough that he doesn’t want to lose his faculties, but the nature of things is such that he has no idea what to do.

 

_Relax…relax. Don’t expend any additional energy on breathing._

 

Loki wants to bite back the stupidity of that statement when a comparatively small tentacle crept up to his mouth like a snake. Then it presses against his lips and pushes against his teeth. Heavens above. Has he just been kissed?

 

_Open._

 

The force with which the tentacle enters is such that Loki has no choice but to obey. Fluidly, it slides over his tongue and fills the cavity of his mouth so completely that none of the ocean water enters. It tastes like salt and feels like hard rubber.

 

It travels down and down and down. Entering the length of the trachea. It should hurt, Loki thinks, but everywhere it touched was a numb tingling. Then, as insane as it is, the tentacle splits along the bronchi, branching where the direction of air does becoming more and more fine until it reaches the end of the bronchioles and presses against each alveolar sac to inflate it with blessed oxygen.

 

Loki could go mad. This couldn’t be happening.

 

The most immediate concern addressed, another tentacle caresses the side of his face, blanched with shock and the creature croons. _Everything will be taken care of._

 

Appendages slicked with slime as lubricant come to his entrance, hot as a tongue, if a tongue were enormous. Then other ones, thin as seagrass, bypass his cock and outline his labia. Loki jerks at the touch. It feels frighteningly good. He would gasp, if not for what was already in his mouth. The creature detects the rise in his heart rate and repeats the action, stroking slowly to and fro with the motion of the waves. His arousal peaks at such a height that Loki can feel the heat of it against the chill of the ocean water.

 

It no longer hesitates, now that he’s assured in the (literal) ocean of pleasure. Sliding a new appendage in as thick as his wrist, it thrusts sharply up the opening of his cunt and tears through something Loki didn’t even have time to appreciate the loss of.

 

Loki registers it as the only source of non-pleasure in this writhing ordeal, but already he’s so aroused again that it hardly matters. Moaning around the thickness at his mouth, he grinds his pelvis down the length of the member, frustrated when he can’t tell how much more has gone in because it’s just darkness against more darkness. Only the glow of those eyes gives him an impression where things are thrusting from the outline. If he could see it fully, it’d appear impossibly large, larger than any Asgardian of his kind, and yet it fits so perfectly.

 

He implores the creature to sink it into him deeper. It laughs like boulders rolling down the hillside and travels up the vaginal canal to greet his cervix, rubbing past something that makes unadulterated lust fill his belly.

 

 _Strike it again._ He hisses.

 

The creature obliges, _Like this?_ withdrawing and pushing back in.

 

Loki’s back arcs in ecstasy and the creature takes it as a sign to do so repeatedly. Through the haze of filthy copulation, Loki can only snarl, _Harder. Pound it harder._

 

Bolstered, the beast tenses up the muscled limb entering him and sets a rhythm of slow drawbacks and sharp drives. Sensing that Loki has lost all reservations, it makes haste and uses everything in its tentacled arsenal to stroke at every inch of flesh available.

 

Had the rest of his clothing been torn off? Most of it had been made of leather with metal, surely he would have noticed? No matter. It’s gone now and would that Loki never have any use for them again. The finest tendrils, play at his most delicate areas. Those thin, long fingers fondle the rim of his labia as their larger compatriot thrusts into his core. The smallest one, as slender as a wire, extends along his erection and travels to the head before slipping inside the slit. Others tease his nipples, run down his face and neck, stroke his arms, dance above his womb, tickle the crown of his cock, coil along the shaft of his prick, but the two largest: the one wound around his waist and the one plunged inside his female organ, they worked in conjunction to pull on the retreat and twist him down on the impale.

 

Loki comes and the entire world ceases to be. He howls and whatever noise is emitted is lost at sea, forming only as bubbles to murmur at the surface.

 

His body is awashed in numbness, a numbness that used to hold him in his night terrors so that he could not escape. Now he doesn’t want to.

 

He’s still riding on the cock arm of the beast, fucked through his orgasm. Naturally, it’d take much more to stimulate something of that size. In what can either be no time at all or a small eternity, Loki becomes aroused again. In his mind’s eye, Loki is starting to enjoy the vision this must make from the creature’s point of view: a small fucktoy, helpless in its grip, pliant in all of his holes and more. He’s locked in a nirvana of cycled bliss, loses track of how many times he’s come.

 

When the creature is about to however, he feels it all the way up to his ribcage and inside his heart chambers. If lava could flow into a body and not kill the person, then that was how he felt. There’s so much of it that his pelvis bulges with the volume. It doesn’t stop flowing until there is no where inside his body to go, left only to leak out of him around the tentacle that was still (unsuccessfully) plugging his entrance. It flows upwards all around him like a milky hydrothermal vent.

 

Time no longer flows just as it accelerates. The monster’s semen which had filled his womb in a generous swell – as if he’s eaten beyond his fill – begins to divide into individual ovoid shapes. Are they eggs or the round hoods of cephalopods? He doesn’t know, other than they are his children. Their children.

 

Loki never feels hunger either. Sometimes a second tentacle will struggle and snake down his mouth to inject a sweet, thick, sticky substance down his throat. He posits that it’s a mixture of nutrients and hormones that will help his body prepare for the progeny. Where they had been as flat as any male’s before, his breasts start to expand, and when the creature is unhappy with how insufficiently large they are, starts to massage and knead them with more tentacles as dexterous as hands.

 

Two projections of circular antennae, like the mouths of ringed anemone curl about and latch on to his firm nipples. They twist and pull insistently, rhythmically, to imitate the suckling action of a human child. Tentacles that split into branching tendrils, which in turn split even more until they form the pinnate of a feather, coming together to surge in one, or splitting apart to sway at random over his areolas. The beast coaxes them to grow, and they do. His breasts become big enough until they leak with milk unprompted. His hips widen to better accommodate the growing, writhing brood inside him.

 

Pleasure flares, intensifies, crests, wanes, and repeats. Loki is nothing but an incubation column of flesh upon the whim of a deep ancient.

 

At no point does the tentacle residing in his cunt ever leave him, until it must to make way. Of course, giving birth to the oceanic monstrosity of this species is nothing like it should be for one of Loki’s species. The tiny creatures squeeze and crawl out along their delicate feelers while Loki pushes to help them along. Once in the water, they pulse upward towards the smell of milk and latch on to a nipple. There, they extract from him a tiny drop to last them the long journey, and then they jet off with all their might into the impassiveness of the sea waiting beyond.

 

Dozens emerge from him, one by one like bubbles until they are desperate and hungry at his breasts. Every one of the creature’s eyes is opened again, but this time each individual eye follows each hatchling until they are out of sight, eyelids crinkling in glee. The last one leaves as Loki’s breasts become spent and empty. His womb is empty too.

 

When he looks into those eyes, not a second later than the words are given thought then the primary tentacle is seeking his entrance. _Fill me again._

 

_Yesss. You are very fertile, and I have much to give…_

 

Beings of this kind produced a large number of offspring, but with very few ever reaching adult stage. Loki is more than happy to provide it with a higher hatch count to maximize reproductive capacity.

 

As overjoyed tentacles rear up to greet him, he welcomes the cycle anew. They please and pump into him with drawn out efficiency and Loki no longer remembers a time, no longer wishes for a time, where he does not solely exist to host its young, pleasure its fancy.

 

If there is a way to track time, Loki doesn’t know. Sometimes every one of those eyes but one will close in rest, although the concept of a creature such as this resting at the normal turn of the day is preposterous. But even during those moments, Loki is languidly being fucked into. It turns him on as the moans of his wanton abandon lulls the creature into sleep. He wonders if this motion from the penile limbs have become encoded into muscle memory, wonders if it thrusts into him as naturally like a child in the night sucking on its thumb.

 

Sometimes, the rocking motion of being pumped into eases Loki into sleep as well, a sleep that has him constantly skating along the edge of release. Other times, Loki doesn’t want to be rocked so much as he wants to be slammed repeatedly with force against the limit of his cervix. In those instances, thick tentacles like ropes bind his chest and waist upright, while even thicker tentacles clamp around his legs ironclad, stretch them as far apart as they allow, and the main ejaculate tentacle surges like a deluge. Relentless.

 

Sometimes he is pulled taut like a body on the rack. Other times he is cocooned in a swath of feelers thick as pythons, sliding in opposite parallel along the length of his body. Between that range, there are countless positions to be fucked in from all sides and openings.

 

Whenever it releases inside him however, the tentacle’s peristaltic movement causes a surge like having a wave crashing into you whereupon the impact is violent and fierce. Loki loves those the most. It fills and fills him until he could overflow from the pores of his skin alone it feels like. But the spend never stays amorphous for long, soon developing into the ridges he can see against his belly fit to burst, the way they shift and divide.

 

The monster, when it’s inclined to, always after the successful fertilization of another batch, speaks to him, flatters him, tells him how beautiful and how good he is. Every variety of appendage strokes across his face like a million lovers. Prior to this, Loki has never had a lover. As it whispers to him, stranded filaments unspool from the cock head penetrating him below to thread through the cervix and enter the womb, to caress and encourage the lining of another uterine wall: thick and supple padding for its precious spawn. 

 

At the beginning of each birth, he comes while whining at the tentacle’s departure. At the end of each birth, he comes at the way the large tentacle around his waist constricts and shakes to make sure each hatchling is out. He sobs in pleasure that combines with the sea brine to burn his eyes, half mad with it and the other half with lust. He births hundreds, then thousands. 

 

They greet him and leave him in the same motion: a featherlight, ghostly, tentacled kiss at his teats like blooming aster flowers along his chest. He loves each of them, but they always leave until he produces more, desperate for the sensation.

 

Having a tentacle provide oxygen through his mouth and into his lungs directly is a fetish. Being reamed into by alien, black projections is a fetish. Being pregnant and having his womb and breasts swell is a fetish. Squeezing his children out of him and having them feed on his milk is a fetish. His body becomes shot through with unending pleasure like the fuse that it is, burning eternally.

 

Breathing, living, subsisting. Existence itself becomes fetish.

 

It’s possible that the pleasure centres of his brain have been rewired, since there are gossamer threads spinning his thoughts out from his ears, tapping into the neuron bundles that compress refractory time, allowing him to live while locked in constant orgasm. He’s steeped in euphoria so deep while suspended by the unknown universe’s design for sex like a perverse puppet master with a string for every nerve, and a reproductive organ as every string.

 

They coexist together in symbiotic sexual loop, and aspects of being such as will, conscience, devotion, purpose, identity – no longer matter. Have never mattered.

 

Then, suddenly, in a paradigm shift, the tentacle that had braced his mouth open all this time as a lifeline starts to retreat from him, leaving him with a lungful of oxygen.

 

 _No. Don’t leave. I want to spend eternity like this._ He has forgotten everything but his name.

 

Ruefully, it tells him. _I have given everything that I have. My children will live to see the future, and that is all I need to rest peacefully in this ocean._

 

 _Please, take me with you!_ Loki implores.

 

He has lain with the beast in these waters for an aeon and cannot comprehend how he will exist without it. Every fibre of his being is laced and braided with those tentacles and should they release and unanchor, he will dissolve as foam on the waves. He tries clenching his thighs together to prevent the largest from sliding out, but it does so regretfully anyway. It almost kills Loki to feel this empty. Devoid.

 

 

 _Thank you._ It rumbles. And when the last tentacle departs with a kiss, Loki tries to grab onto it as long as he can, guide it back inside, but it’s no use, and instead he is dressed in his old tattered clothing. Somehow his form has returned to what it once was again, mistakable as a man.

 

_Farewell, mother of monsters._

 

A lifting sensation buoys him, and Loki breaches the surface of the water, drifting unconscious.

 

\---

 

He wakes up on a shore.

 

Gravity, heavy as chains, causes him to cling to it. Loki struggles to remember how to take in air. The birds have finally been found, and they perch squat on top of rocks covered in seaweed.

 

He turns and Thor is beside him, hair damp and cape soaked. He breathes easily in sleep as Loki cannot awake.

 

The sea is calm again, and one day, her creatures will return.

 

 


	2. Parasitism

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello. Tis I, bringer of pain.

Thor comes to when the cold shock of water hits him. His head is still bludgeoned from the pain and he can’t make out what’s in the water, but whatever it is, he is surrounded, outnumbered, and caught. The hydra has him in its coils and was pulling him down too quickly to regain his sensibilities when the intense water pressure adds on to his chiseling headache.

 

They snap him up and rove over his body as he strains uselessly. They go further to rip his leggings and grope in derision, testing the limits of his strength. Thor makes the mistake of opening his mouth to scream.

 

That’s when it invades and follows the salt water in viscous horror. Thor struggles like a fish on a hook even as he is trapped in the monster’s unbreakable hold. Brine, harsh and burning, pours down his stomach, but somehow his lungs are spared even as they are filled. In confusion, Thor accepts the oxygen greedily.

 

The monster waits, peering at him with eyes that are opening one by one, and Thor plunges into another level of dread when he realizes that the serpentine shapes are not even the body, but only the arms.

 

A titan of the abyss.

 

From the ultramarine depths, it speaks to him in the voice of the apocalypse.

 

_I have your brother._

 

And Thor prays that this is a nightmare from a fevered torment.

 

_Let him go._

 

Its laughter scalds his mind with cruel cacophony.

 

_I should snap your spine like the mast of a ship, but he has made a deal for your life._

 

Thor’s mind is trying to catch up in comprehension. Loki has talked them out of situations before, but nothing ever like this. What would a creature of this kind even want from him to negotiate with? But if there were anyone in this universe clever enough to do it, it’d be Loki.

 

_What deal._

 

The tentacles in his view roil and flex in amusement, though the ones holding him remain firm. _See for yourself_.

 

A slender tendril, so much finer that it’s difficult to believe it’s of the same being, slithers before him to touch his temple. Loki’s image fills his sight, safe and uninjured, but before Thor can feel relieved, a swarm of tentacles strike from behind to grip him as well. Thor tries to shout in warning, but his mouth is gagged and he can only jerk his torso forth in reaction. They snake over his limbs, catching his arms behind and trapping his legs apart. A slimy projectile, thick and hungry rends Loki’s clothing, leather tatters drifting away to reveal…

 

Thor’s not quite sure if what he sees is real.

 

But the probing thing was excitedly testing at an opening between the cock and anus, a trait Thor has only seen in women. Blood roars in his ears and bile rises to the back of his throat. Thor starts to understand what the nature of this deal entails.

 

And now he really is screaming. Even around the monster’s tentacle in his mouth. Muffled screams with not a soul to register, panicked bubbles that escape upwards.

 

No. No, this couldn’t be happening. Loki wouldn’t let it. This was a trick, an illusion, surely. Thor didn’t know Loki knew of such tricks.

 

But when Loki’s body slacks in surrender, when the fight goes out of those eyes, Thor realizes it’s not a trick.

 

When a similar tentacle enters his brother’s mouth to wind down to the lungs, Thor realizes it’s not a trick.

 

When thin ones brush the entrance in something like foreplay, generating arousal, Thor realizes it’s not a trick.

 

When one, larger than any of the others so far, surges forth to line up… Thor realizes… it’s too big, it’s much too big. And Loki…his little brother, Thor has never believed him to have been touched by anyone previous.

 

 _Please!_ he interjects, now aware that there is nothing in his power to prevent this, but still desperately hoping…

 

_Just don’t…hurt him._

 

The tentacle strikes true in one motion, and Thor will never be able to erase the expression on Loki’s face as his head is sharply thrown back and his eyes widen in pain.

 

The fact that it does not last long is little consolation. Thor cannot banish the image. He’s done this. He’s led them to this. Loki never should have come, never should have followed him into such danger. Loki was always so afraid of the creatures of the deep.

 

As much as Thor wants to, he cannot look away, partly for penance and partly because the monster will not allow it. More appendages rush towards Loki like poisonous vines in their spread. They stroke, curl, pull, coil, writhe, twist - in every width imaginable: the smallest ones as ink ringlets in water, the largest ones as pythons to suffocate. Loki’s expression softens and flushes into one of pleasure. Pleasure at his own rape.

 

Thor starts struggling anew.

 

The monster does not relent a hair’s breadth. His arms are trapped behind his back, tentacles wind around his wrists tougher than cuffs or chains, and even his hands are splayed apart, a coil around each finger so that he has no grip to call Mjolnir.

 

Tentacles shift across his shoulders to wrench his head still and tilt his chin upwards. It forces him subdued and thus stabilizes the image of his brother’s assault.  

 

_You will watch this._

 

The monster’s release courses into Loki’s body, filling him beyond where he was already filled. Thor can see the swell in his brother’s abdomen. It continues and fills beyond capacity, leaking out around the immense phallus, clouds the surrounding water.

 

It feels to Thor an eternity before the ejaculate dissipates, before he sees Loki’s being in full again, still connected at both ends to the beast.

 

Why wasn’t the monster pulling out? It’s had its fuck.

 

A rumble travels up every muscle in his body, deep as to penetrate to the marrow as well. _You didn’t think it was anything as base as mere sex do you? No, what I require is procreation._

 

How is it that Thor keeps unearthing deeper layers of Hel.

 

That’s when Thor begins to witness Loki’s changing form in pregnancy. If he could look away before, he most certainly cannot now. Time is fluid and torturous: Thor’s protestations are futile against it.

 

It starts in the swell of his chest: pert breasts that might fit in half of a cupped hand. Loki is still part male, and this suppresses their full development. Their captor manipulates the change further to entice growth, fuller breasts to match a filling brood. His stomach enlarges, curves to fit a child – children.

 

The fiend rouses in delight, petting and stroking its appendages over the curvature of that swell, perhaps counting what it could by the individual bulges.

 

The tentacles hold Loki in something a bit more like a cradle, if such a word can ever be ascribed to the situation at hand. They wind and travel between the thighs, around the hips, encircle the waist, and up the deepening valley between the breasts to nestle and coax at the sensitive, growing tissue. It plays with the mounds, balancing their weight in the water, squeezing on occasion to test the ripeness, pinching with its feelers around the nipples until milk starts to excrete. Loki’s body becomes more and more gravid, until his face is the only remaining feature that’s more angular than it is soft. His eyes are forever glazed over, hair flowing in the water following every touch and direction of the monster’s sway. 

 

It’s the most erotic image Thor has ever seen.

 

The waters don’t feel as cold as they used to do. He could die of shame if the monster would allow it.

 

 _Why…_ the voice pauses to savour the next words and all they implied, _such longing for kin, such exquisite lamentation._

 

It alarms him that Loki’s eyes are insensate to everything but pleasure – his sparkling intelligence dulled behind vacant lust. Thor has never seen Loki as such before. Everything with Loki as he is now is nothing that Thor has ever seen before, but his eyes are the greatest difference.

 

Angrily, _What have you done to him._

 

As if it’s forgotten about his existence, the creature delays answering, playing on Thor’s despair. Perverts on Loki’s helpless figure some more.

 

 _Nothing that he did not also wish for. I need the ideal receptacle for my children._ Seismic tone nearing on flippancy.

 

_Is it not to your delectation as well?_

 

The tentacles have him in a hold everywhere. Everywhere but the standing erection between his legs. He has never been this hard, even when he could touch himself.

 

His cock begged for relief, but Thor fought it. He fought it by remembering Loki’s pained look when he had first been breached. That was the one thing his traitorous body could not confuse with pleasure, no matter what the monster did to them.

 

Like a fruit hanging too heavy on the stem, the main tentacle retracts, and Loki starts to give birth. They look like tiny octopi with three times as many legs, latching to and feeding on their mother’s milk before disappearing. More and more emerge to float about him in a tangle. The beast’s tentacles, one at each breast, twist and squeeze to help in the milking. Loki moans around the intrusion at his mouth, breath leaving him at every tug until the last of them journeys off into the sea.

 

Thor does not succumb. _Not like this. Not like this._ He uses shame as a cat-o’-nine-tails flay. As long as the pain was greater than arousal, he would be kept back from the precipice of orgasm.

 

It’s almost over he thinks. It’s almost over. There must have been dozens of them. More than enough.

 

_It’s not over until my children populate the seven seas once more._

 

Thor could have bitten off his own tongue in anguish, longing for the taste of blood.

 

_Perhaps I can have a use for you yet. The storm was your doing after all._

 

A new tentacle emerges to encircle his cock questioningly. It’s different from the others however – tubular instead of protruding.

 

_Would that I can grant my children the gift of typhoons and tempests, thunderstorms and twisters. That they can sunder the lands so that oceans once more claim all._

 

It moves to coil at the base and swallow his cock, meanwhile, his brother’s gaping hole is being simultaneously penetrated once more.

 

It’s tight and firm, warm in the suctioning action that accompanies a wet vacuum.

 

Thor chokes. It feels like – it feels like a cunt.

 

Again, the indelible image of Loki being pillaged before him, plundered, despoiled, but most of all, being thrust into while in sync with the way Thor’s cock is being wrung. More tendrils materialize to attach to his temple, and now Thor can behold every angle and perspective of what’s happening, as if he were there himself, as if he were the one doing this to his beloved brother… Loki’s face is frozen in mindless want, body convulsing on each thrust.

 

A firebranded spike of lightning whips down his arced spine. The pressure released from his balls shatter all vestiges of self-control. His immorality streams out of him, spurts long and repeated. The monster’s makeshift quim harvests it all from him, collecting his essence to mix it with its own.

 

_What a fecund pair you make._

 

Thor finally surrenders entirely.

 

The next clutch Loki gives birth to will be borne from his incestuous desire.

 

The pregnancy length seems endless, and yet there is still an endless amount of pregnancies to go.

 

Between every delivery is an eternity within its own, an eternity where he exists on the knife point of insanity by overstimulation yet demanded from to climax over and over again.

 

Virile as Thor is, even his flesh wanes. When it does, the beast snakes an appendage down his throat to fill it with something repulsive and oily, but whatever it is, it stimulates his weary cock into stirring again, along with Loki’s beautiful face.

 

He is fucking his brother.

 

He is not fucking his brother.

 

He comes a hundred times in a minute.

 

He comes once in a hundred lifetimes.

 

What was it he used to tell Loki all those years ago?

 

Back when Loki would run into his bed in the middle of a night, tears running down his face from the nightmares.

 

He can’t recall…

 

All he knows now is the rhythm of their being mated.

 

At times, when he can bring himself to think, Thor doesn’t know what’s worse: Loki being fucked even in his sleep, or Loki having to wake up to even more ruthless fucking. Thor watches his brother’s prone body, arranged like a toy, a bauble, a plaything with a convenient orifice. Violated, all while Loki looks on like a numb lover.

 

Loki, who wore high collared tunics, was bookish and scholarly, but also spitfire and mischief. Loki, who read sitting with his legs crossed, chin balanced on his hand, lips pursed in thought. Loki, who was untameable by both their parents and the judgements of their peers. Loki, who reserved a soft spot for Thor only, and likewise, Thor held him in his esteem like no other.

 

Loki, who was the light of his life and the source of this agony.

 

Loki, who was naked and vulnerable on the infinite mass of feelers, tentacles, arms, cocks. Loki whose legs were pried open by the monster’s appendages, powerless against the onslaught. Loki, who was pliant and yielding to what he feared most, in a gambit for Thor’s life. Loki, who seemed lost to him, out of reach, but not out of mind.

 

Loki. Loki. Loki.

 

His name as mantra, Thor cares for nothing else.

 

The monster comes up with inventive ways to take his brother. Loki is suspended upside down, legs raised in a V, with that giant cock pumping downwards to piston, distending his midriff each time it enters and jostling the dangling breasts.

 

Previously, those tentacles had wrapped around him in such numerosity until, as if a human bobbin, only Loki’s head and lower hole exposed, legs having been folded up to the chest and run through each end like a bead on string.

 

The one before that, had been an exercise in all the different phenotypes the creature could produce. The simplest kinds were serpentine, they worked to probe and rub, coating him in an aphrodisiac. Some were pinnate, fan-like in the way they gently swept across areas to tantalize. Others were thread thin and were able to worm their way into tight spots like the cock slit, the outer vaginal folds, or the navel. Some were even a combination, coming together to create more complex shapes that were medusoid, polyped, or otherwise branched eccentrically. They could taper, flare, ridge, groove.

 

Every hellish mode of modified molestation was available.

 

Thor is treated to no such diversity. He is far from impotent, and blood pumps readily through his member.

 

The worst was when one of them had been fashioned as appendage into a hand-like ending. It had interlaced between Loki’s own and held there like a silhouetted, human-limbed paramour. Used another one, to sensually cup Loki’s face, slide down the line of his jaw, trace his stuffed throat.

 

Thor comes violently and spasms in the aftershocks as if electrocuted.

 

It uses the seed to inseminate him again. Loki’s toes curl and his calves’ tremble. The ejaculate dyes him in steaming white.

 

No matter the position, the creature always made sure that the siphoning tentacle on Thor’s end kept time with what Loki was experiencing. Thor, for his part, can consistently be counted upon to unload at the performance.

 

Loki’s pale skin sports winding bruises around the waist where the creature manhandled him in its tightened grip to release every one of its hatchlings from the womb.

 

Thor watches on weakly, birth after birth. They had come here to slay the monster, and now they have only produced thousands more. Whenever their young start to emerge and swim up to the breasts, Thor wonders what it would feel like to take one in hand and fondle the ample bosom. Whenever they start to extract milk, Thor speculates on the taste and texture of taking a teat between his teeth and sucking. If his touch would elicit the stream of bubbles from Loki’s pleasured response.

 

The monster vindictively spurs his carnality.

 

_What words do they have to describe it thus? Broodmare. Sow. Mount. Bitch._

 

It laughs fatefully, vengefully, volume rising to a frenzied pitch that threatens to send Thor into delirium.

 

Thor is condemned to crest, painfully, shudderingly, over and over again. They rip from him, lacerated, molten, licking him in hellfire flames.

 

Occasionally, a fresh orgasm brings with it some clarity, renews his apprehension at the abuse being endured, replenishes his self-disgust. But no matter his mind and body urging him to fight back and his desire to do so, he is completely ensnared. Too sadistically to even be permitted to black out.

 

His heart hammers painfully in his chest. The oxygen he’s fed no longer feels sufficient. All the while those grotesque, luminescent eyes open to worsen his headache, each scene of their horrific union flipping through Thor’s mind like the torn contents of a book – no, a tome – pages flying in the wind.

 

Then.

 

_At last, my line is secured._

 

It finally deigns to release him, determining that Thor is no longer necessary. The tendril above his brow and between his eyes shoves, tipping his consciousness backwards into oblivion and memory.

 

It felt like falling into an uncovered well, frigid and dark.

 

A hollowness inside his heart opens.

 

A recollection from their youth.

 

On a night that was stormy and strange.

 

 _‘But it has too many arms! You’ll never be able to fight it off.’_ _He manages to sob straight._

 

_‘Yes I will! I’ve managed to fight off everything that’s ever tried to fight me!’_

 

_It doesn’t do much on its own. Loki wants detailed, plausible logistics in a hypothetical battle. Thor never really lets that bother him and he manages to win anyway._

 

_‘Shhh, you’re fine now. I’ll always protect you.’_

 

_‘How?’ Loki is all but inconsolable._

 

_‘Because big brother loves you most.’_

 

At the time, it seemed the law of the land, nay, the universe, to Thor that his standing and adoration alone would extend to safeguard those he loved.

 

Too late, does he realize that it was never really an answer to Loki’s distress at all.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all I think I have in me, but if you want to further enable with potential talking points and inspiration, strike up a comment below.
> 
> Or go into detail about all the pain I caused our beloved norse homos. It'll warm the cockles of my heart.

**Author's Note:**

> Yaaaaasss, I finally have my own tentacle porn fic. Guys, we need more of it in this fandom. 
> 
> Comment if this got your lady juices flowing, comment if this inspires you to do your own kinktober thing. Comment if you just love the idea of fluffy, pretty, neat-brow-plucked baby Loki getting absolutely rekt in the worst ways.


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